The Value of Taking a Walk/Monster Machines

For the majority of my life, I hated walking. I would win about having to walk. I would much prefer to ride my bike or take the car. Walk to the park? I'll just stay home. Walking seemed so slow and took so long.

Humanity had evolved past walking. We trained animals to let us ride them. We created new modes of transportation. We had bicycles and cars and scooters and skate boards and so much more. Why would any chose to walk. Walking a mile seemed like thumbing my nose at hundreds of years of ingenuity and evolution.

Then a few years ago, I left CHS Field in downtown St. Paul and started walking. I had just planned on getting out of the crowded downtown and the ride share services surge pricing after a Saints game. A couple blocks, check the pricing. Nope. Walk a couple more. Then at some point, I realized that I was maybe a third of the way home already. Maybe I should just walk. I even wrote a whole blog about it when I got home: I Took a Walk.

That walk changed my perspective some. But going without a car for 6 months in 2019 after totaling two vehicles in the span of 5 months was a seismic shift. I walked to the bus. I biked. I utilized ride share services. And on occasion I would just walk home from work. All the way. Walking a mile didn't seem so long anymore. Even 5 miles just took time, it wasn't a stress or even difficult.

It was during these walks that I started to realized how much I had been missing. Driving a car is a full sensory job. You have to be focused on the road, the signs, the signals, other cars, pedestrians, bikes, the condition of the road and a million other things. Noticing any thing else can be a danger to yourself, or to others.

But wow, you miss a lot. Landscapes fly by without a second look or a thought. Homes, buildings, how fast the leaves change. Today I dropped my car off to get the AC recharged. The service station was along the route I used to walk home. So instead of sitting inside or arranging a ride home, I decided to start walking home. Figured if it took a long time, I could make it home. If the fix was quick, I'd just turn around.

I got about a half mile away from the service location and there was a construction project for a new subdivision underway. In what was previously a heavily wooded lot, they were deforesting it as quickly as possible. Passing by in the car, I would probably not have given it a second look. Walking by, the machines were incredible.

One had an attachment that would grab onto a full tree as the blade at the base cut through it in seconds. It would lift 30 to 40 foot pieces and drop them. Another tractor would pick them up in its claw and drag them to what was seemingly the world's largest wood chipper. The chipper fed into a full semi trailer. It was efficient and honestly kind of terrifying.

Another bobcat looking machine had a saw blade that would have seemed more appropriate on the set of Mad Max than in suburbia. This smaller mechanical monster was roaming in the wake of the larger tree eater. The blade constantly spinning and grinding up anything that the tree eater had left behind. These machines, which looked like the characters from Bob the Builder got the Lovecraft treatment were decimating the former forest in an impressive and yet disturbing dance of efficiency.

It was a scene that is burned into my mind. Even now, nearly 8 hours later, it stands out and I am transfixed. I decided to drive by this afternoon. The mechanical monsters are gone. The field looks almost naturally barren. There is no indication that those giant Snorts did this. Just a sign foretelling of condos and town homes in the 300s coming soon.

Is this the weirdly comforting and yet perverse modern cycle of life? That land was barely used, in a first tier suburb, it was likely simply a matter of time. Yet if I hadn't been walking by, the sheer force of the change, the mechanical monsters would be unknown to me.

The Fortress of Solitude.

In 1995 my parents built a house. They let me choose which bedroom I wanted of the three upstairs. I choose the smallest one, because I was convinced that I would eventually move to the one in the basement.

The basement was called The Fortress of Solitude among my friends. It was the scene of countless sleepovers, games of pool, movie marathons and hours and hours spent playing Legos. There is no doubt that of all the hours I spent in that house in the past 25 years, the vast majority of them where spent in the basement.

It was a versatile place. The summer I was dumped for the first time, I cried and listened to Paul Simon's Like a Rock album on repeat - the basement was my safe space. It served as the sound stage and film studio for so many home made epics, like the Storming of the Bastille. It was a killing field of a war zone during the Lego-GI Joe-Playmobile conflicts of the late 90s. It was there at my surprise 18th birthday party took place.

Even after I moved out in college, the basement was still my space. When I would return home, it was where I would go. Every party thrown in that house had parents upstairs and kids in the basement. The basement was always there.

I finally got to move into the basement bedroom in the two months after I got married. The basement was our first apartment. I even got to finally paint the room to a blue that I chose. I moved away to Boston and then to Kentucky and then back. When my marriage ended the basement was there as a nursery and home for my kids and their Mom. My son went through a period where he would fight bed time with all of his might. So many evenings walking around that pool table, singing to him as he tried to cry himself to sleep.

The Lego table returned and my kids played on it then. The Fisher Price castle that had been the set for the Bastille became a castle again. The storage area turned into a kitchenette. My kids played in the shower that once was the preferred after soccer practice locker room. They moved out and the basement waited once again.

In 2008, my financial house of cards collapsed. I got laid off. I was in so much debt. I got dumped. I returned to the basement again. The bedroom was set up with two bunk beds for the kids and a twin bed for me. The little TV that hung in the corner had a VCR. We watched so many movies before bed, Disney classics, Star Wars and more. I set up my computer as a wine rack and searched for jobs. I "cooked" us meals in the kitchenette. We played so much pool.

Again, I moved away and the basement returned to the place I would go when I visited. Each of my children got to have sleepovers there with their friends. They both wanted one more this summer but Covid took that possibility away.

Today, I moved the pool table out of the basement. The house is devoid of most furniture. What is left was put here by the home stager for photos. The house has been sold.

Today I stood in my safe space and cried. Tears of pain. Tears of happiness. So much. Memories. Ghosts and visions hang in every inch of that basement. So many times that basement was there for me, my family, my children.

The basement was always a way that my parents could show me they loved me. It was always there as a refuge. From the dreams of pretend, Legos and camcorder movies. It created safety for a broken hearted teen, foolish newlyweds, broken hearts again. It was there - all the way through to the laughter of my kids and their friends.

I cried for the last time in my safe space today. It is empty. Soon another family will fill it with their own memories. The Fortress of Solitude will now belong to someone else.

Those Eyes

I read or heard or imagined a quote once that eyes where the window the soul. Maybe I took it too much to heart. But those eyes have always opened the door to my heart.

At first maybe it was the challenge in them at recess, a glint of competition at the four square field. Or maybe later at the middle school camp when truth or dare seemed the most dangerous game that could be played.

Later those eyes were wide and innocent within a theater production, I was tasked to ask them to put on a happy face, to shake off the gray skies. And I desperately wanted to make them happy. Through life and misfortune, I wanted to make those eyes smile, even if i couldn't fix the reality of life and death and burdens too heavy for most teenagers.

Then they were eyes that were focused on the future, on results, on potential on anything but what was in front of them in their last semester. I wanted those eyes on me, to see me so much. I hijacked the plan those eyes had. And in the end, didn't live up to the promises my eyes had made.

A read through isn't supposed to change a life. It's but words fumbled through with rarely any connection. Yet I found those eyes in that first ready through and I couldn't escape the connection. A read through is the first run through of living someone else's truth through your own lips. But in that moment I found an accidental, unavoidable truth.

Eyes maybe the window to the soul. But that soul in my experience is my own, I have learned so much about myself from falling into the depths of another's eyes.

Love, pain, confusion, lust, terror, trust, disappointment and hope. What I saw in each of those eyes will never leave me and in a way I will never truly understand what I saw.

Haywire. Why wasn't this movie a hit?

Some times I don't understand the world. Well, truth be admitted, I rarely understand the world. I'm not even talking about pandemics or the arrogance of those who deny it's existence or even that this is the probable endgame for years of denying that science is science about so many things. When you the village there will never be a wolf, when a wolf arrives, they assume it's a mirage? Mixed metaphors or not. This is not about science or pandemics or even wolves.

What this is about is how a movie that seemingly had everything going for it, wasn't a hit. The year was 2011, a viral sensation and action sports/MMA star, Gina Carano, made the seemingly brilliant choice to wait for her debut film role, Haywire.

She could have easily taken a check for a wink wink action movie that was big on stunts, involved MMA  moves and followed in the footsteps of so many sports to movie transitions. A reboot of Bloodsport? Easy. A female slanted Rambo or Rocky? Meh. Instead, she found something completely different.

Stephen Sodenbergh after Erin Brocovich, Traffic and the entire Ocean's thievery trilogy, with a cast to die for and a fairly clever script. Built around Carano's persona, athleticism, charisma and visual presence. It should have been tossing gasoline on a bonfire. Epic, explosive and eye catching.

Just look at the cast. Carano as a first time actress is the only perceivable question mark. Ewan McGregor, Michael Fassbender, an impossibly young Channing Tatum, Michael Douglas, Bill Paxton and Antonio Banderas.

The script does an excellent job of letting visuals and silence tell the story as much as the spoken word. Carano plays an ex-marine now global security specialist who basically functions as a spy. Sodenbergh gives the entire film a nouvelle-noir film. Yes this is an action movie. The stunts and fight scenes are spectacularly filmed. But it's a caper, a heist, a spy film and an action movie all rolled into one.

The script allows so many of the characters and by extension, the performers to thrive. McGregor has always had a very easy bad guy vibe. Especially if there was subterfugue to be involved. Banderas plays the committed government man with questionable side with charm and easily creates doubts. Tatum plays a combo bad boy, eye candy and boy scout. Douglas plays the political figure that you easily could believe is evil or good or just a political figure. Fassbender, it a morally ambiguous agent who looks dashingly handsome but is underwhelming.

Even Bill Paxton plays her father, a spy novelist with a weird mustache and back story that only he could make seem reasonable. It is interesting that his character is the complete opposite of "There in the fucking wall man!" from Aliens. Playing against type?

Soderbergh uses silence so well in the film. It creates tension, makes the action scenes pop even more and not once, not even for a moment, does Carano utter or even seem to be about to utter a one liner upon defeat of the enemy. The vast majority of fight scenes end in silence, in seeming contemplation.

Haywire hardly made any money. Carano never became the next great female action star and her career has not gone to the level I might have expected. However, her excellent turn as the aging and reluctant freedom fighter in The Mandelorian has been a very welcome back to relevance. As an action movie fan, I feel we missed out on a decade of potential.

I am glad that she's found her way back into the mainstream with The Mandelorian. But we'll always have Haywire as an ode to what she could have been and what action movies should aspire to be. Clever, beautifully shot. Leave the dialogue to the villains and never forget to use silence as a character itself.

Quarantine Spoiler Movie Review: Money Train (1995) or White Man Can't Rob Trains Either

In this time of quarantine and boredom, I am diving into some dark corners of the streaming universe. Tonight as I scrolled through the 1995 Wesley Snipes, Woody Harrelson and Jennifer Lopez classic, Money Train. A couple years after the cultural impact and success of White Men Can't Jump, Hollywood looked to cash in on the Wesley/Woody chemistry that led to such incredible box office success. There is a line about lighting striking twice. Short story, it rarely does. This review is going to ruin the movie, so you don't fall in to the trap I did. Remembering that I saw it or at least wanted to see it as a kid and wasting any precious quarantine time on this forgettable gem from the mid 90s.

Somehow, a movie that takes place on basically subway trains, cost nearly $68 million to produce. White Men Can't Jump cost less than 31 million. It grossed more than 90 million dollars at the box office. It shouldn't be shocking that Hollywood dreamed of a blockbuster return from this crime caper.

Woody and Wesley play cop versions of their White Men characters. Basically adding bad action, trains and some classic 90s action move dialogue. In one of her first movie roles, Jennifer Lopez inhabits the Rosie Perez character. But add the fact that she is the token, hard edge by the book cop. Robert Blake plays one of the more over the top racist action movie characters of the 90s. He also has the pleasure of delivering some absolutely terrible dialogue.

Woody and Wesley retain some of the chemistry from White Men and they have some fun scenes of quick and clever dialogue. But the real sparks fly between Snipes and Lopez. In a very silly movie, their connection is one of the few plausible events. They dance and then they box. It becomes a seemingly believable connection. 

Woody plays the screw up well. First he gambles himself into debt, then when his brother gives him is life savings, he loses it trying to stop a mugging. There is some odd visual juxtaposition of Woody's character getting beaten up while Snipes and Lopez make love. It's as one of my college theater professors would say a sledgehammer moment. Driving a wedge between these two brothers and partners. This drives them apart. Woody into despair and out into the literal cold. 

One bright spot of this movie is Chris Cooper in a small but actually pretty interesting arsonist, psychopath called the Torch. Cooper is an all time character actor and was still a year away from his critical breakthrough in Lone Star and several years away from his huge performance in American Beauty. His unsettling turn as Torch gives the movie some needed tension every time he shows up. A movie that focused less on the stars banter and more them determining this psychopath's motive and modus operandi would have been a much more interesting script. 

The take down of the Torch leads to the classic action movie trope of the hero cops losing their badges. You couldn't make an action movie after 1985 without a mismatched hero duo, a boss who screamed and someone losing their badge.

Oh and a bad guy threatening the innocent to put our hero or heroes in an seemingly impossible situation. For Woody, that means his gambling debt must be paid by New Year's Day or they will kill Wesley. 

Threatened with the death of his brother, Cain decides to rob the money train to save the life of Able. I'm not bothering to use actual character names because it doesn't feel like either actor or the script spent much time crafting a character. But there are more than a few echos of the age old tale of sibling rivalry.

In terms of action fun, Wesley running through the restaurant beating the living hell out of the bad guys is cathartic fun. It is legitimately the only segment of the movie not involving Lopez that Snipes looks like he is having a good time. For a moment we get to see the Wesley from Passenger 57 and Demolition Man and a glimpse of the future in Blade. 

The movie picks up when the heist is finally set into motion. Woody/Cain's plan is flawed. It doesn't go as planned. Wesley swarms in to rescue his brother, and joins the ill fated heist. As an audience member, beside the fact that Robert Blake's character is abhorrent, why should we be rooting for our heroes in this caper? It is poorly step up. Until. Robert Blake goes full evil. 

He puts a passenger train in front of the runaway Money Train. Literally echoing the trolley car dilemma. Or in a shockingly unexpected metaphor to the current government crisis, what is the acceptable death toil to keep the money system rolling as expected. 

I did not expect to stumble upon a metaphor or our current situation but art is a crafty rogue sometimes. 

Wesley and Woody ignore the probable laws of physics to create a rudementary lever of sorts, which stops the runway Money Train, and launches them safely onto the previously doomed passenger train. They emerge, action movie barely scratched just in time to punch Robert Blake and watch as Jennifer Lopez arrests him for endangering the passenger train. She is cheered on by one of my favorite unknown actors, Bill Nunn, as the endangered train conductor. Nunn appeared has 71 credits on IMDB.com and I bet you'd recognize him and not be sure where from. For me, I saw him roughly twice a week during childhood as the detective trying to protect Whoopi in Sister Act. 

Money Train isn't the worst action movie of the 90s and I have seen most of them. It slogs through too much attempt at witty dialogue and wastes Lopez in a stereotypical role. But the once the heist gets rolling. In terms of train movies, it lags behind both versions of the Taking of Pelham One Two Three, Unstoppable and has nothing more than a train in common with Snowpiercer but it is not the worst thing I have seen during quarantine. 

The trolley problem that I mentioned earlier connects with our current social situation. Mashable did some work to breakdown the connections in their article here. It is not a perfect comparison and certainly Money Train took the concept and used it to define the hero and the villains of the story. But I'm sure reality won't have as neat an ending. And I really hope it doesn't take until New Years Eve either. 

The trolley problem solution also pops up in a famous quote from Star Trek, both in the original movies and the JJ Abrams re-imaginings. Hopefully the nerds can lead us through our current crisis as well.

All of My Social Coping Mechanisms have Collapsed. But I still have my dog.

There have to be one million "First Day of Quarantine/Social Distancing" blogs. So why not one more. I worked as much as I could yesterday, from open to close (limited as it was) at the restaurant. A place it took me 12 years to get hired in. I returned to the industry when I asked the GM years ago how I could someday be a part of that place. She said, well you need recent experience, the next week I begged a friend for a reference at Champps and was back in. But it took years and even burning out and leaving the industry again to earn a spot at my chosen place.

I am a nearly 40 year old divorced white male. The vast majority of my friendships come from my workplace, my hobbies and my common retail and service locations. I am what you would potentially call a regular. I value seeing people I trust, sharing minimal amounts of detail and if being truly honest, being remembered.

I worked at the visual location of Cheers in Boston for nearly three years and often in the gift shop, where I spent most of my time, people would walk in and ask me if I knew there name. Of course, I didn't know every tourists name and learned not to guess. But the power of someone knowing your name, your drink, your favorite meal is really something that people underestimate. In in opinion the worst thing that can happen is to be forgotten. Apathy is so much worse than hate. Then it seems logical that being remembered is close to heavenly.

Which means that right now, I am in hell. My social coping mechanisms of restaurants and bars, cigar shops and even delivery places is all broken. I love to watch movies but the theaters are closed. I have enjoyed swimming even though I am the youngest at the mid-day lap swim by 20 years and yet still get lapped. But the community center is closed. I served at my place for one last time yesterday and I spent half the shift biting my lip so I wouldn't tear up.

Acquaintances, coworkers, friends all came in. And I knew that I wouldn't see them for weeks or who knows maybe more. People who would smile when they see me, ask about my family, support me as teammates. I've been to these people's weddings, birthdays. I've shared my struggles and they have shared theirs with me. Now we all have to hit pause.

I just hope it's not stop. I am a horrible communicator. I do not share information or feelings well. If I do, in person it is more likely and then maybe some ill written texts when I get too close to the breaking point.

Many of the familiar faces I know, whom I have learned about over the past decade, I do not actually have much contact information for. Many I do. But historically, I am a bad "first contact" type of person. So I worry that I will not connect with so many over the next days, weeks and maybe months.

And then there is being the father of teenagers, who are going through all their own stuff. My daughter recently got cast in a play in a city 30 min drive away from home and I couldn't have been happier. Multiple 30 min drives with my kids in the car, sharing their music choices and reacting the world, having conversations and learning about them? Pure heaven. I will hate this virus for a lot of things, but nothing so much as taking those car rides and shared experiences away from me.

Today I didn't know what to do with myself. No work. No kid events. A directive to stay inside. Avoid contact. For the good of others. I made it roughly 15 hours before I just drove to get gas so I could see humans. I live alone. And social distancing has reminded me just how alone that really is. It is going to be hard and I'm worried I will shrink back, not contact people and likely as is my way when I am scared, push people away. I don't want to. But history has a lot of reminders of what I have done and am likely to do again.

Though all this is my dog. My rescue mutt who has been used to me being gone during the day. When I am home she patrols, sniffs, does recognizance and general protects me from squirrels, random joggers and the mail person. Yet today she has been on the clock for nearly 24 hours. Understandably she is exhausted and seemingly a bit confused. I went outside and sat in my car for 30 min so she would take a break. But I'm not sure she really relaxed. She never saw or heard me drive away so I think she was on to me.

I fear losing my acquaintances. My friends. My coworkers. I fear what isolation will potentially allow my depression and anxiety to assume. I know there will be assumptions and I know that they are simply that. But isolation, idleness and depression can form a persuasive trio when there is little other evidence.

Which is why dogs may be the one thing that saves us during all of this. Lorelei is always there, always protecting, always close. Which I couldn't need more now than ever before.

The Memories we keep locked away and unlock accidentally.

I haven't been full time server or bartender in 6 years. But when I was I had a server book that I used every shift. Tomorrow, or later today rather, I will beginning training for a server/bartender shift.

It's the shift I wanted 11 years ago. That led me to apply other places, burn out, try the corporate world, burn out again and then ironically, find my way back to the service industry for shifts that I long ago desired.

I was ready for bed but the impulse to find my old server book was strong. It had a picture of my kids as basically infants, it had stickers I had earned, it was covered in tape. It had seen the dark side of the serving world and had survived. Like any retired knight headed back into battle, I wanted my trusted tool to be with me.

I didn't find it.

However, I did do the thing that I dread most. I let memories and mementos out of their boxes. I have always been a collector. A keeper of things that had special significance. In high school I was teased for having a shadow box of things on the wall in my room. I had boxes and boxes of memories and moments stashed away in the basement. At the end of most school years I would empty my bag and locker into a box and set it on the self for historical preservation. In the chance I had a presidential or famous person library, I had saved the genius of each of my scholastic achievements in a box. Easily set up for display.

While this may have seemed very forward thinking for a grade school aged child, in hindsight it was also super egotistical and narcissistic. And that hubris played into tonight's lack of sleep.

I went looking for this server book. Probably long discarded. And I found years of memories, moments, and terrors instead.

A trophy from grade school baseball? I found two. Evidence of former lovers? How about an engagement ring, a pair of earnings, a box full of pictures and even the love notes from freshman year of high school.

Interested in out of date technology? I found 7 different phones. 2 external hard drives. A box of unused 3.5 inch disks ready for late 90s term papers. I found cds a plenty, a musical black hole that I have fallen down with enthusiasm.

The first Ken doll that was based off of Captain Kirk? Yep. But out of the package. The first Macfarlane Toys Kevin Garnett figure? Yep. In the case and close to mint. Look out kids college fund!

Boxes and boxes of paperwork, papers, note books, diaries. Hopes and dreams in horrible handwriting. A thousand sketches of the same crystalline object. Some really horrible emo white boy poetry.

We used to print photos. Before we had a computer in our pocket. I found albums and albums. Theater productions in Boston and Kentucky. An impossible young me in Twelfth Night in Concord MA. All the photos from theater in Kentucky, photos of me on stage, playing someone else because I couldn't be myself day to day. An album of kid photos from the 7 months I was separated from them by states and hours and ego. That brought the tears.

Once the tears started, they didn't really stop until I dried up. Boxes and boxes of history. Of what if. Of things that I loved, moments of people I loved, lost or drove away. Trophies that meant so much in a moment in time, like the stupid bowling trophy that one cast gave me or the nearly complete series of Blacklash comics from 1995-1997.

I didn't find the server book. But like an anthropologist who all too eagerly opens a sarcophagus, I find so many ghosts. I don't know if I'm ok or not but man, ghosts are so real. They just hide in your head until the right trigger.

I guess I'll get a new server book. With new stickers. With a new picture of the kids.

For this new adventure. And I'll ask the ghosts to stay in the basement like Harry in Harry and the Hendersons. That works. For a while.

What's the deal with Mail Routes? A less than informative research exercise.

I am waiting on a postal delivery. I rarely use my mailbox. I check it at best once a week. But today, there may be a check arriving and money is always a powerful motivator. However, I have no idea when my mail usually arrives. In the past I would not often be home during the delivery time. In addition my mailbox is across the street and the view is obstructed by trees. So unless I look outside at just the right moment, I am unlikely to see the mail truck drive by. So today's writing exercise will be focused on learning as much as I can about mail routes.

One of my first resources for this expedition is an article from People.HowStuffWorks.com. This is the first time I have encountered this website and the article is from 2017 so take this information with a grain of salt. The article, "Delivering the Mail to Your Home Is Way More Complex Than You Might Think" interviewed Brian Renfroe the executive vice president of the National Association of Letter Carriers. The National Association of Letter Carriers, also known as the NALC is the union that supports letter carriers.

When it comes to routes, according to Renfoe, rural and urban routes are two very different animals. This is usually due to the distance between mailboxes in rural areas vs. the density of urban areas. Understandably an urban route with hundreds of high rise apartments will likely function differently than a rural route with mailboxes more spread apart.

The article cites that the USPS uses several computer programs to create routes. Routes are based off not necessarily address but on mailbox location at that address. At my house the mailbox is likely nearly a 100 ft from my front door and as previously mentioned, across a fairly busy suburban street. The carrier can drive right up to my mailbox, saving time versus getting out the vehicle and walking up to my door.

Mail carriers come in a shapes and sizes and those statistics will impact a route as well. Longer legs may make routes shorter in reality. Shorter strides may make for a longer time to complete a walking route. The level of mail to be delivered factors in as well. However, actual route data seems to be impossible to find. This may be due to the fact that routes change during the week based on volume and employer schedules. It may be a safety factor. A list of when and where a federal employee will be could be a potential security risk for that individual.

I did learn of an interesting program that would help me know if my check was actually en route. The United States Postal Service now as a program called Informed Delivery. According to their official website:

"Informed Delivery is a free and optional notification feature that gives residential consumers the ability to digitally preview their letter-sized mail and manage their packages scheduled to arrive soon. Informed Delivery benefits the entire household by allowing users to view what is coming to their mailbox whenever, wherever – even while traveling – on a computer, tablet, or mobile device."

I tried signing up for this service and they couldn't send me a text to verify my identity. So I am waiting on a post card that will seemingly serve to verify that I am living where I say I am and thereby have a right to digital previews of my mail.

But the real question is, why? Would a digital image of this month's utility bill or the latest piece of junk mail actually provide value? Is this simply designed to make me feel more comfortable because I have seen a picture of what it to come? No more dread of the unknown when opening the mail box. In all honesty, the images will likely make me even less likely to make the trip across the street. If I know all that awaits me lurking in the dark cold of the mailbox, I will probably skip the trip until there is something that is worthwhile...or I until I get the feeling that it's so full, I'm going to annoy the mail carrier again.

My investigation did not prove very fruitful but it did kill enough time for the mail to arrive. I didn't see the truck. My pup, who was tasked with keeping a watchful eye, didn't alert me either. The check arrived as expected and I find myself a bit richer in probable useless knowledge about mail routes.

Bad Dreams, Worse Ideas in the Woods - Sunday Free Writing Fiction Exercise

A crunching sound exploded with each step, as his foot broke the icy surface of the snow covered path. Last night it had snowed, enough to obscure any past footprints or markings on the path. As dawn broke, the snow storm slipped from full flakes to falling ice. Coating everything with a glimmering thin layer of ice. In the quiet of the forest the crunching of his steps felt louder than expected. There was a bit of satisfaction with the sound. Breaking the silence seemed to make the cold fade for just a moment.





Dawn was a very welcome experience. It gave him some idea of how long he had been walking. In the dark of the night, it was nearly impossible to tell the time. The cold having caused his smartphone to die. It was a frozen brick in his pocket. Now nothing but another weight pulling him down.





It was foolish to leave the cabin in the middle of the night. Even in the moment of panic after the night terror woke him, deep down he knew the folly of going for a walk in the middle of the night. Especially in an unknown area, a forest no less. But at that moment, as the ethereal visions from the nightmare haunted his thoughts, fresh air and a moment to collect himself was more important than safety. His fear of the dream pushed him out into a new kind of nightmare.





It was the claws. The claws from the dream that spooked him out into the cold winter night. The image of those claws tearing through the tent, slashing at him, opening up such a gratuitous gash on his arm that he awoke clutching his bicep.





As his eyes opened - he knew within a moment that it was all a dream, a vision. There was no blood pumping out of his left arm. No visceral fluid seeping through his fingers. It was just a dream.





Walking without a map, in the dark, and in freezing temperatures turned out to be a nightmare in and of itself. He was lucky that he had the foresight to bundle up with gloves and a hat. Though heading out without either of them would likely have sent him home much sooner. Heading back to the cabin sooner might have prevented his current situation.





The current situation involved probable frostbite, a substantial amount of shame for getting lost in the woods and a palpable amount of panic. If the sun is up, that means he’s been walking for hours. Hours of walking potentially in the wrong direction.





When the light first broke through the trees, he was elated, with improved visibility he should find his way back to the cabin in no time. Yet as the crunching snow beneath his feet would attest, the path shows no indication of past travel or direction. Even the absence of his own footprints is disconcerning. It wouldn’t be shocking to find that he had wandered hours in circles in the dark. However, there are no prints, not even his own. Which means he could have been walking for hours away from the cabin.


Frostbite is a tricky bitch. The colder you get, the less you feel. Do you feel yourself slipping into the dark? Likely you feel less and less. As the cold claims more and more of you, more and more of you ceases to send the requisite warnings to the brain.





There is never a good time to get lost in the woods. Yet, in the depth of winter might be the worst of them all. Temps well below freezing. Wind chills creating additional danger. He was bundled. But the lack of feeling in his fingers and toes caused concern.





As it always does, the dawn brought with it a sense of hope, an idea of possibility. So he trudged on. Encouraged by the placebo effect of seeing the sun, convinced that the cabin was just around the next bend, or the next...

Interviews and First Dates - Same Difference?

Something that I have experienced lately is the weird emotional and psychological experience of a job interview. Either in person or on the phone, they are both likely awkward, tension filled, fraught with social and economic peril and in the very least, super uncomfortable.

Another thing that I have gotten very used to over the past few years are first dates. They are also full of social and potential economic peril. They impact emotional and psychological well-being. In person, via text or even those maligned dating apps, they are awkward, tension filled and absolutely uncomfortable.

It struck me how absolutely the same these two experiences are this week, as I changed clothes three times before an interview. A suit was too much. Khakis? - no. Jeans but which ones, distressed, label or the ones that feel the best. Has to be a long sleeve button up.

Polos are for when you have the gig or golfing. A sport jacket with jeans can be trendy or lazy. Shoes? Don't even start. Comfy or sending a message. Socks? Does anyone even see you socks? Who looks at socks?

Maybe this is the socks interview and I will mess it up. Fine. Noticeable but bland. Colors not characters. What you want them to know you're a geek? But the gig has numbers, so maybe you DO want geekness. But not R2D2 socks geeky. Maybe something with science. Do we have those? God, I hate math.

As I settled on jeans that I felt good in, the button up that I last felt success in, the boxers that I love (no on sees these but it matters), and vibrant but not geeky socks, sensible shoes that are bluetooth connected to my app so I can provide number proof to my "hard work" or at least "steps" - I came to the following revelation.

This combination was the same thing I wore on my most recent first date.

Is this just my go-to comfy outfit? Does this same more about me that the date went fine but I didn't pursue things further? Since this is the combination of my moderate success but ultimate avoidance, am I setting myself up for the same in this interview? Do I clearly overthink every little dog gamn thing?

So I changed shirts. The interview went well. I think. But I always think the interview/date/conversation goes well at first. It's the ego. Then the id takes the film back to the back of the brain and like a psychotic coach analyzes each moment by the second. The id tears the performance apart. 

The following day, I returned to the first outfit combination. Partly to try some new magic sauce and partly because sweat is a thing. Interview went well also.

The id did it's thing. Tore holes in the confidence and revised history to make certain that some jokes maybe didn't hit or that something was a bit out of bounds. This gives the id and its nightly mind terror minions plenty of ammo. They can craft a story based roughly in facts and yet toss in new levels of destruction.

Each night after the interview, the id took that info and turned it into a failed date night terror. In one, I had a stroke after a date on the walk home and my family posted on social media that I was in the hospital. (please don't do this family). So every woman I had dated in the past two years showed up to my bedside as I was in a coma. My id made sure that what I overheard trapped in the coma was them comparing stories about how bad the first date was. Thanks id.

The next night it was a first date that went good then bad. Much like the oldies tune of falling asleep at the drive in movie, "Wake Up Little Susie" this resulted in the couple falling asleep at a brewery, waking up and setting off the alarm, with the male portion of the duo being dragged off in handcuffs (not the fun way) for industrial espionage when it was revealed he had connections to a competitor.

As a fun bonus, both nights included the same brunette in blue scrubs. Some one that I couldn't place from reality, entertainment or literature. So, part of me is convinced I will meet her someday. Nice little twist of the knife there, id.

So what does all this mean? Are interviews the same as first dates? Roughly, yes. Does my id deserve some sort of contract with the CW to turn my torturous dreams into a teen dramedy? Also, yes.

Life is full of weird and awkward moments. Two of the worst I have recently experienced are interviews and first dates. But as always, my id remains undefeated in creating terrors worse than reality.

And next time I'm wearing the full on geeky socks.

The Meaning of 39

There are some birthdays that feel significant. Sweet sixteen comes to mind, though I certainly didn't throw a big party. You get to vote and potentially get drafted when you are 18 and not much else. At the age of 25, I've been told your car insurance would go down, but not when you are me. Twitter tells me that I should have some things accomplished by 30 or 35. And next year is the big 4-0 which probably means a mid-life crisis is right around the corner. But in the grand economy of social status and thought, turning 39 is pretty insignificant.

Which means, that I will spend a decent amount of time today trying to find "significance in the insignificant" - which would also have been the name of my emo cover band. So, as the well wishes and coupons from every company that has my email begin to flood in, here are some significant 39 related things.

It turns out that '39 is the title of a Queen song that I had never heard before. It was the B-side to "You're my Best Friend" and released in 1975. It is oddly haunting and has something to do with a ship and it's crew.

It is one of the few songs that Brian May sang for the band. According to Wikipedia "The song tells the tale of a group of space explorers who embark on what is, from their perspective, a year-long voyage. Upon their return, however, they realize that a hundred years have passed, because of the time dilation effect in Einstein's special theory of relativity, and the loved ones they left behind are now all dead or aged." 

Well that is a big unexpected and I'm not sure what it means for my birthday. But there is a real impulse to get a ship tattoo encircled by the lyrics: 

And the night followed day
And the story tellers say
That the score brave souls inside
For many a lonely day sailed across the milky seas
Ne'er looked back, never feared, never cried

39 is also the country code for Italy. So that's nice to know, if I ever need it. 

Last summer, Nelson Cruz became just the third player 39 years old to hit at least 39 home runs. Fingers crossed he breaks 40 next year. 

There is an independent film called The 39th, that looks at a certain political campaign in Illinois. According to the website;

"The 39th is the story of how campaigns are won and lost in Illinois today — the strategists, the people, the tactics — and what happens when a community comes together to take back local politics."

I have not watched it.

Jimmy Carter was the 39th President of the United States and coincidentally in office when I was born. I knew he was a farmer and former Governor of Georgia. I did not know that he graduated from the Naval Academy and worked on submarines, including in the nuclear submarine program. He only resigned his commission when the need to take over his family farm arose. I wonder how history would be different if he stayed in the Navy? 

The 39th parallel runs just south of Kansas City and Topeka. Kansas City is where my mom was morn and Topeka is a city in Kansas. 

On a bit of a morbid note some notable celebrities passed away in their 39th year. This fact is probably the only time you can have a list of people that includes Martin Luther King Jr., Anna Nicole Smith, Stonewall Jackson, Wild Bill Hickok, Amelia Earhart, Malcolm X and Dylan Thomas. 

Dylan Thomas wrote one of my favorite poems. It feels fitting to end on a vocal recording of it. 

Have Good Product or Good Service or Die.

So here is a thing I hate, businesses that are not good at anything. You're the spork of life. Trying to be everything and pleasing no one.

This is especially true when it comes to craft beer and taprooms in the Twin Cities area. I drink a lot. I am a horrible cook, so I eat out a lot. I do this at various establishments in the Twin Cities area, nearly every day. It continues to boggle my mind how many places can't provide either good product or good service. It's legit hard to find both in the same location.

I can imagine what you are thinking, if this jack hole doesn't like the product or the service, they can either learn to cook/brew/bake or GTFO.

Which would be great - except as a jack hole, I do not care to do any of that. I eat/drink/exist out in the consumer based economy and I at this time will use my made up right as an American to complain.

The places I visit exist in two spheres, which I define as good product or good service. Occasionally these overlap. More often than not, they do not. Rarely, there is a place that can't manage to stick the landing in either circle. These places I avoid unless there is an unrelated compelling reason to visit.

If you have good product I will forgive poor service. This "good" could be defined by price or quality. If you are a dive bar selling pints for less than $4. I do not expect exceptional service. I expect it to be dingy. To possibly have some questionable characters. To have a hint of danger just on the other side of a careless comment.

If the product is exceptional, I will wait. If the atmosphere is engaging, I will allow for a longer wait for my next drink or for food to arrive. In nearly every situation there is an opportunity to balance the scales.

If the service is exceptional, it covers up for a lot of mistakes. If the product is superior, a misstep or two can be forgotten. What can not be accepted is a failure on both fronts.

A two front war is often said to be a fool's folly. Yet the taproom, dive bar, restaurant is constantly fighting on those grounds. It may be why the failure rate is so high.

Today I bounced from space to space and I experienced the full spectrum of good product, good service, both or none. To me, it helped define the landscape of taprooms especially over the next five years.

Have good beer. Or. Have great service. If you have neither, you will cease to have problems to worry about.

The market is glutted. At least in my opinion. Yes, media will tell you that we are not at "max brewpub" as defined by MPR News. But I feel that this assumption is missing a major issue. We may not be at "max brewpub" by capacity or economy. But I feel personally, in my limited experience, that we are at a level where breweries, brewpubs and beer bars can no longer afford to be bad at both product as service.

An important thing that I will define is that product is separate from atmosphere and location. Each can paper over the cracks of poor product or service. In the local market we even have what I would call a few zombie breweries leeching off their location alone. They are mostly dead but just don't know it.

My focus is on the overall quality of product, service and existence. So I will not be naming names or calling out specific experiences. I visited several today but one visit is not a full picture of reality. So it makes no sense to shame or call out anyone. And since at best I have maybe 50-60 people who will read this, why poison their future experience.

I try to balance new places with places I know and trust. So today after visiting a location that I have been to several times a week for more than a decade, I decided to try a place I have been but once. It was clear that I was not a regular. It was post Vikings game, so the crowd was thin. I opened a tab and then after my first beer, the entire interaction with the 'tender was nothing more than a transaction. Never was I given a suggestion for my next purchase. Never was I asked how I enjoyed the last.  Money for product exchanged - never an attempt to encourage future visits. I had my three sample size beers, which were fine if not exceptional and I left.

Next was a place I have been to before and would likely not visit again, except for on this occasion, they were hosting a fundraising event for something I am also a supporter of. In the past I have not enjoyed their beer. But the space is nice, they always have solid food trucks and before today their service wasn't an issue.

You know when you walk up to an employee in their place of business and they seem annoyed you are making them do their job? Yeah. That was tonight. Employees would rather be anywhere but at work. Have any questions about the beer? Make it quick. Want to possibly keep a tab open? Nope. Already closed out. You the customer are an imposition.

The thing that makes it worse is, the beer, the product is meh. It's not bad but it isn't good enough to make up for the lack of effort from the staff. The location closed at 8. By 735 they were flipping over chairs and making the vibe, "get out". I stood up and one employee told me, "it's no rush" as they flipped over the stool I was just sitting on.

I took my glass of half consumed beer and set it on the bar. The contents were iffy at best and not worth the shade the employees were sending my way for daring to still consume my purchase 10 min before close.

This particular location will likely continue to exist. They have environment, momentum, food trucks etc to cover up their lack of giving a shit. I may even return if they provide a space for a fundraiser for something I support.

But here is the rub, they might not even be here in six months. There is no guarantee. As a brewery, tap room or beer bar fades away, so much time is spent on the outside influences, market environment, political landscape. Rarely does any one ask if they provided a good product, good service or both.

As the attrition continues, as each article about a dream deferred or a passion project that passed is thrown into the ether, ask yourself if the subject provided either or both good product and good service. The truth more often than not, to the unbiased, is that they found a way to fail on either or both accounts.

No - they aren't thinking about you/An Eye for An Eye?

In the past I have referred to myself as a "self-hating narcissist." In my definition that means that I think that I should be excelling at everything and hate myself for not accomplishing all of my hopes and dreams. In past therapy, I have been informed that this term, that I created for myself, is not really using the words in the right way. However, being a self hating narcissist, I ignored them.

I am also commonly the type of person who thinks that other people are thinking and judging me way more than they probably are. I assume that you have heard the statement that no one thinks about you as much you do. So it will probably come as no surprise that Research Confirms That No One Is Really Thinking About You.

While that makes a lot of sense, that reality flies in the face of my personal obsession - me. And what I think you are thinking of me.

I am also trying to be less of a self hating narcissist who believes that every attack is a personal affront and there must be retribution. An Eye for an Eye.

I probably spent a bit too much time in grade school reading the Old Testament. Or perhaps it was through learning about Hammurabi in Sid Meyers Civilization series. Though to be fair, I don't remember much on that in the game. Something that I do remember is a lot of violence in the book of Judges in the Old Testament of the Christian version of the Bible.

It was my favorite book to read - basically a collection of short stories about a warriors, prophets and judges. I even thought it could be turned into a comic book. "Judges - prepare to be judged" isn't the worst title ever. The level of violence and revenge in Judges always felt to me like it could easily slide from ancient Hebrew into the styling of Jim Lee and his artists/creators at Wildstorm. Perhaps I saw Judges as the spiritual predecessor to Team 7. I mean one judge stabbed a guy on the toilet and then escaped capture through the sewer system. Sounds a lot like a scene from Game of Thrones doesn't it?

Deep down, I know that an eye for an eye doesn't work. Gandhi himself revised the famous line to "An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind." That revision makes sense. It seems more mature, refined.

It doesn't make the primal need for retribution vanish. But logic interrupts emotion.

Except when it doesn't.

I am closing in on 40. I will be 39 in less than a week. But when I feel wronged, when I feel that there has been an injustice visited upon me. I might as well be a toddler inside my own head. While I might have thrown a fit and tantrum on the floor as a toddler, now I keep the hysterics and tantrums contained in my head space. Mostly.

Some times, I break and want to lash out. So I post some emo bullshit on social media or use one of my burner twitter accounts to be pick a pointless fight on Twitter. Or write a really strongly worded email that I never mean to send. Do these childish actions make me feel better? Perhaps in the moment. With the endorphin rush comes coursing through me. Like throwing a glass against a concrete wall. The explosion of shards and cacophony of sound overwhelms the space.

Then seconds later, all I am left with is a bunch of pieces to pick up.

So it is when I break and lash out. Later there are new consequences to pick up. Posts to delete. Twitter handles to burn. Emails that can't be unsent.

It seems to be a common experience in the world today. The cycle of perceived wrongs to justified righteous retribution leading to a mess that no one really knows how to clean up. Pick any topic. Politics. Religion. Interpersonal communication. Dating. Parenting. Health Care. Medication costs. Sports. Diet. Stationary bicycles as Christmas gifts. Avocados.

It feels more and more that our eye for an eye tactics are leaving more and more of us blind. Blind to the suffering of others, the humanity of all and thousands of other topics that you could easily substitute for any of the previously mentioned.

I don't do resolutions. But I am going to try and keep Gandhi's revision in mind going forward. I don't know that I will always be able to control my impulses. I know that I can probably never apologize to Dave in Cleveland or whatever his name was that blocked me after we argued over which baseball team had worse owners. I know that even when I pick up all the pieces, things can't return to what they were before.

Yet, I will try. I think that's something to be proud of.

Though I likely will hate myself for not thinking of it before Gandhi. 😒